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I bow my head and say a brief prayer of gratitude for having the opportunity to even do this for a living. I’m reminded every day by my manager that this is an honor. A privilege. And I feel that way…but I resent his reminder. And it feels like my overwhelming popularity is taking me farther away from the people I represent. The people I want to inspire.
Exhale…I nod to the young woman with the headset on. She says something I can’t hear and waves me through the curtain.
I walk out, raise my hands in the air, and clap and bow to the audience.
The screams are deafening. And I feel truly honored. It is a privilege, and I love sharing my music. But I wish I wasn’t so goddamn tired all the time lately. I’m getting too old for this shit…am I?
I make a pass along the rear of stage and wave to all the guys in my orchestra, tip my head to the pianist and then turn my attention to the crowd.
“How’s everyone doing tonight?”
“Cómo estás esta noche? It’s great to be home in Chicago!”
I grab my violin and bow and turn to the guys behind me. Here we go…
And as always, as soon as the music begins, everything else fades away. All the angst, all the fatigue. I don’t even notice the people anymore. I just play. And I love it. It is a gift. A gift. I am grateful for it every time I pick up this bow and place it along these strings, and something beautiful comes out. I don’t even know how that happens.
I remember the first time it happened as a kid. A friend dared me to do it. There was a cute girl in the music class and school. I already knew I was gay…I didn’t have the proper definition for it, but I knew I took that dare because of the cute boy who dared me and not because of the girl it was going to help me get closer to.
I also knew I looked nothing like the other kids in school. I was the only brown kid in my class.
I wasn’t the only kid who spoke multiple languages… there were others, but usually the second language was French or German or even Dutch. My adoptive parents encouraged me to speak Spanish, even at home sometimes. They didn’t want me to forget where I came from, even if I did. I didn’t want to be so different. I didn’t want to look different, sound different, be different. I wanted to be a kid like all the other kids.
I would come to learn later in life how much easier I had it than most. I had wealth—my parents did. I was in a private school. I wasn’t harassed as much as I likely would have been in public school as a kid from the Dominican Republic with very white parents.
I was also a big kid. Big and strong and intimidating. That probably helped keep the bullies away. I played football because I was big and strong, and because, being a boy, it was expected of me. I didn’t really know that I had a talent for music until the day the cute boy in class dared me to join the orchestra. Dared me to try out.
I did. And when I picked up the bow of the violin…I never felt anything more natural in my life.
Fortunately, it still feels that way to me. I still get lost in the beauty and rhythm of it, whether I’m playing Mozart or Beethoven or my version of Stairway to Heaven. It doesn’t matter. It’s all music. It’s all transportive. It’s all an escape. An escape from the solitude of my life. The loneliness I’ve chosen. The alternative to living with a pain I can’t bear. So I opt for solitude over companionship. Oddly enough, up here on this stage in front of thousands of screaming fans…that is where I find my peace and my solitude. Nobody can tell me what to do here. Nobody can break my heart here. I am in control. I am in charge.
The first half of the concert comes to a close, and I exhale as the lights go down and the curtains fall, allowing the set crew to alter it to look like a moonlit night along Lake Shore Drive.
As that transformation is happening that I’m being told a storm is brewing outside. The winds are whipping furiously off Lake Michigan. Not unusual, but the accompanying icy rain is. Snow we can handle. Ice, well, that doesn’t bode well for anything.
Cutting the concert short is not ideal but is an option, and they want me to consider it. I nod. No problem. Getting everyone home safely is the priority.
“Okay,” I say, my mind already racing to alter the second set, cut it in half, explain why…deal with the ruckus that will follow…
I take a long swallow from the water bottle that was just handed to me and, holy shit, he’s here.
My stomach does a little flip, and a shiver rushes through my traitorous body when I catch him staring at me. His gorgeous face wears a delicious smirk. I can’t decide if I want to smack it or kiss it off his face—or both.
I ponder not even saying hello. Lots of people show up backstage for my shows. Celebrities, politicians, you name it. I don’t greet them all. I can’t possibly. And tonight, with the storm…
He looks calm and cool. Like the doesn’t have a care in the world. He doesn’t seem to expect a greeting.
I can tell what he’s after. He wants to play. And he wants to play with me. I know he would be fun. A lot of fun. I wonder what he would think of the club. I wonder how he would feel about being on his knees for me.
He’s hot as hell. Big and strong and God, I can just imagine the rippling muscles underneath that perfectly tailored suit he has on. That thick brown hair clutched between my fingers, forcing him to his knees before me. And he’ll do it because he has no idea what to do with a man. I sure as hell do. And despite myself, I can imagine way too many things I’d love to do with this man. Straight. Straight. Straight.
Before I can tell them not to, my feet head his way on their own. I take another swallow of water and let my eyes stroke up and down his body. I can’t help it. And it’s anything but subtle. But I’m guessing this man doesn’t need or want subtle.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
Well, I was right about the subtle part. And the look in his eyes…he isn’t just coming on to me. He means it. Fuck me. My stomach flips again. What do I say to that? I’ve been called beautiful before. I’m used to it. Almost expect it sometimes. I don’t think that makes me arrogant. I just know what my looks do to people. And I roll with it. The man standing inches away from me now. The man wearing the same scent that I do. That man is beautiful, too. Drop dead gorgeous and he knows it. I can’t even imagine the effect we would have on a room walking in together.
He’s dressed much the same way that he was the night I first saw him. The night I acted like I’d barely noticed him. Dark suit hugging all his muscular curves. The soft expensive fabric barely able to contain those massive thighs lurking beneath. Crisp white shirt stretching around his chest and biceps. He has a camel wool coat slung casually over his arm. Formal, yet not. Elegant, for sure. If I didn’t know he was an athlete, I would take him for executive. A hard-core commodities trader. I smirk, as if anyone really knows what that is. I didn’t instantly know he was an athlete the night I met him. I knew he looked like one. But he was in a suit, in the box, hanging out. Gawking at me. Being angry with someone on the phone.
